Belonging

We all feel the almost unbearable urge to fit in somehow, to pull together the fringes of the world into place around us in the shape of family, friends, job, entertainment, clothing. We also have a sense that this is a symptom of the herd mentality and to be scorned, a shame which causes us to apply and reject the labels so frequently used: hipster, ghetto, nerd. But it is a universal necessity to belong. We seek esteem of whatever qualities in us we deem estimable--a hair cut, our ability with computers, holiness like a patched and shredded garment. Who we are often cannot stand alone. And I'm not sure it should. Fellowship is the basic emotional/spiritual need, the cry that goes deeper than Maslow's hierarchy.

See how we shift the upholstery of our souls? How this one assumes the skinny jean/shipster look and that one the pencil skirt/intelligentsia look--changing the upholstery, and sometimes the attitudes, that cover the still-beating heart and blood.

So in this sense we are shallow creatures, changeable, malleable. Ready to give up one skin for another, assuming actions, mannerisms, thought patterns like chameleons. But in another way we are sublime for this trait, for we recognize the trappings which seem to us admirable and pursue them, and our souls achieve a momentary apotheosis. It will not last, but the transformation has made us divine for a moment. It has also brought us one step closer to other souls--we have reached out of the forsaken splendor of our own souls and into the territory of another spirit.

Fellowship. The urge to belong. Part of the human condition, the splendor and the squalor.

Abstraction

What does it mean to dream?

What is a dream? Lying within and sparking to life at a single thought--this is a dream. Latent, slumbering, essential, the vision that, though unformed, seems to bring with it the path of life--this is a dream. From youth an inner hunger that cannot die, though denied and starved through a lifetime of duty--this is a dream.

It can be ambiguous or specific. It can be many-faceted or single-faced, obsessive. It can surface differently at different times of life--a painful yearning for somewhere else now and a desperate need to travel to Ireland later--but it is always within the diamond casket of your soul, burning and burning to escape and breathe, to grow and lick away at the false structure of life with its ravenous beautiful flames.

It is fire in the blood. It is night with a single star. It is the innocent breeze on your cheek. It is all this, and it is nothing. It is inescapable and easy to ignore.

What does it mean to dream?

Without a dream you are nothing. With a dream sometimes you are nothing, too, because a dream carries with it the dull knowledge that no matter how hard you strive you can never fully live it out, you will never find the perfect representation of that vision that seeks expression within your heart.

But with a dream you are everything, because you are living on all cylinders. You are striving toward something beyond, and you are choosing every moment to seek until you find. Whether your dream is travel, or education, or business, or photography, or wine, or cathedrals, or color, once you step into the cascade you join the River of Life and become truly alive for those moments. You swim in the sea of mystery. You breathe deep the air of freedom.

What does it mean to dream?

It means you never stop facing yourself with brutal honesty. You admit laziness, pain, bitterness, incompetency, and you go on. You make yourself room to fail, and you succeed. You strike out into the unknown without the assurance of salvation. You fail at explaining yourself to others but you still keep trying.

This is what it means to dream, a little.

What does it mean to you?

Endless

Endless. Horizon stretching unbearable, blues shading into greens, teals, purples--white snow sharp against misty prospect.

How did we get here, to the eagle-sight of Oregon, to the clean air that fills us like wine and sweeps through us like water? Do invisible ties bind us to the sultry heat of Missouri, where crops wither and folks take shelter? As we stand on the snow and our feet sink into the icy crystals, as we clutch each other for balance and laugh in startled delight, do our souls ascend to the heavens, since we're so much closer now?

The faces we've basked in--those behind us engaging in post-wedding revelry, those of family familiar to us in their sorrow and their joy, those of new companions of the road--fill our hearts now, papering the walls of our internal rooms with mystery. We are the product of all that has come before--we are ancient, we are infants. We dance in the freedom of life and we bend under the weight of experience.

At the summit of Mt. Hood, we pause for a family picture. Sublimity and prosaic reality intersect. Life eddies and swirls around us. We breath. We exist.

We are endless.

Companionship of the Road

We drove today for endless hours across South Dakota's wide-spread hills and plateaus, the throaty sound of motorcycles roaring by, the sky soft with dappling clouds. We hit the border during the Sturgis festival so surrounding us at all times (hemming us in, shooting amused and hostile glances at us, and alternately passing then holding us back) were tanned, tough-looking bikers. We thought of our friends who'd give a tailpipe to be here, and fretted against the traffic.

Eire has done well on this trip, riding for over 7,300 miles with aplomb. Sometimes we can just hear her saying "Boring, boring" and sometimes we hear nothing because her toys--gangly Mr. Giraffe, spiny purple Fishy-Ball, or Millie the Worm--absorb her interest. Or we hear her plopping her pacifier in and out of her perfect mouth, gnawing on her thumb, or sucking on her arm.

We fill our time with gawking at the lovely scenery--the craggy majesty of the Mission mountains, the bleak plateaus of Wyoming, the lush Columbia River Gorge, and take turns pointing out bumper stickers (like my favorite today, "Where the HELL is Wall Drug?"), dilapidated buildings, interesting people, and unique vehicles. We read out loud--or rather, I do, since Michael's driven all but fifteen minutes of the six weeks--from short stories, or poetry, or "The Picture of Dorian Grey." We listen to music ranging from Tool to Dylan to Oscar Carcamo. We share visions and dreams. We argue, and make up.

This is the companionship of the road in the McIntyre family. Living in our truck, sleeping in campgrounds and parking lots and loved ones's homes, we have made our way across the country from Missouri to the west coast and back again. Tonight, in Sioux Falls, just six hours away from home and all we hold sacred, I am filled with the crazy conflict that comes with saying goodbye to a chapter in my life and hello to the next. I will miss the quiet morning miles, the coffee kedged from shops ranging from awful to astounding, and the knowledge that anything can happen and probably will.

Tomorrow we pull into Kansas City and plunge back into life. In one way it will be as if it hever changed--the waters of life will part and close over our heads and we will be back in our accustomed places, among familiar faces. But in another way it will be different, because we are different. We have been changed subtly, in increments, by the people and the places we have met along the way, by the challenges and the comforts, by the wisdom of learning more about ourselves and each other.

I am eager and reluctant, joyful and grieved. In this paradox of life I willingly step forward. Greetings Kansas City. Goodbye everywhere else--we'll return someday, not so long from now.

Courage in Creativity

my first painting in ten years

Let's face it: it takes some guts to create, to create anything! First and looming large in the consciousness, there's the knowledge that I have the chance of creating something stupid, or faulty, or just plain negligible. Then there's the always-present possibility that I could be laughed at, mocked, or--worst--ignored. And then what if, as I undergo the process of creation, I am changed? What if I become different somehow than I am now, and what if I don't like myself so much then?

Right now I'm beginning work on a novel. It's going to be based on my childhood  in the very conservative Christian homeschooling movement, and on my experiences 'coming-of-age' in the Real World. Deep down, I feel impelled to write this book, no matter how long it takes me to write, no matter who I offend, no matter what the end product looks like. But I must admit I'm petrified.

the wise fool who speaks in riddles

Baggage. That's what I've accumulated in my 27 years on earth, and I'm going to have to open some of it if I write this book. I will have to face some deep church-related wounding within me--years of control, boredom, frustration, and most of all, effort. And as I intend to spend a lot of time listening to others who have come from the same background I will have to face their baggage too. There is much that is beautiful in my background (and my family was outstanding) but much that was twisted and ugly too. I'm afraid of the pain that I'll have to weather in exposing all this to myself and then, through my book, to the world.

Fear. What I have to say isn't all positive. I have no desire to write an expose, but if I'm going to write this book, I'm not going to tiptoe around everyone's 'sacred cows'. Because more and more I am convinced that there isn't any point in me writing anything if I cannot be true about it. I'm afraid of what others will think. Even to the point of pondering a pseudonym. But why would I publish anything of which I'm not proud?

fighting the dragon

More fear. What if, after all, I'm no good and I can't really do it? What if I talk about my novel, research my novel, make a few half-hearted stabs at my novel, and in the end have to acknowledge that anything I have to write isn't making it through the veil, that my craft is weak, and that I should after all stick to writing articles on hiking trails and restaurant cuisine? What if I fail?

I'm sure I could extend this list, and I think in future posts I will explore each topic separately. But for now I want to share my current conclusions. I must trust. I must trust that I was created with a big enough gift for communicating what I simply must say. I must trust that the passion building within me has a purpose and an outlet, and that others will really want and need to hear it. I must trust that if I embark on this project it will someday come to an end, a beautiful end, though possibly different than I intended. I must trust.

What is one fear you face when you create?

Honesty

exhaustion--the other side of motherhood

It's hard to be honest sometimes--certainly with others but mostly with myself. Growing up one thing that was never tolerated was any kind of untruth, and I have always prided myself on my honesty. But as I grow older I'm learning that honesty isn't quite so easy to quantify, that there are many layers in a human heart and mind, and that just figuring out what's happening within--much less admitting it--can be excruciating and at times impossible.

The important thing to realize is that without honesty no relationship will flourish--it may appear to, but it is growth without foundation, foliage without roots. Whether it is friendship, romance, or collaboration, honesty must suffuse the relationship.

Honesty of thought, acknowledging truthfully to myself what I'm actually thinking, admitting and allowing myself to feel rage, frustration, love, appreciation, fear, confusion. Honesty of action, within the bounds of courtesy letting my movements speak truly of my inner state, without resorting to the hidden games of banging doors, manipulating, crowding, or clinging. Honesty of speech, actually saying what I mean without letting it build until it explodes the doors of my soul and decimates others, communicating as much as possible exactly what I think and not trying to couch the words in roundabout phrases that might shelter me from conflict.

I must acknowledge that while I see the importance of honesty, I often don't know how to live it.

What do you think about honesty? 

What I Wish I'd Known As a Teenager

Teen Week 2012 is a blog project hosted by body image warrior Medicinal Marzipan. Bloggers from around the world will be posting on topics related to self-esteem in teenage-hood. I'm honored to participate.





Growing up in a very conservative setting as I did, clothes were a big problem for me as a teenager. It was the late 90's, and I desperately wanted to fit in. All around me I saw stylish girls wearing tight pants, form-fitting tops, earrings, makeup, and elaborate nails. That was outside, 'in the world'. Closer to home were long loose skirts, loose tops, long hair, no makeup, and very little jewelry. These two images clashed horribly within me. The first was labeled "pretty" and "popular" in my mind and the second "holy" and "right".

What makes me sad now is that I never looked within for direction--and this wasn't only in the area of fashion. I was caught between a couple of boxes in the 'what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up' department as well. It was either 'have a career' or 'be a mom'. Neither of which appealed to me all that much, to be frank. But somehow it never occurred to me that I was unique. I had a unique style, a unique perspective, and a unique destiny. No one could tell me who I was--only I could find myself.

And so this is what I say to teenaged girls everywhere: Figure yourselves out. Don't be afraid to try different clothes on, and different accents. Read books and learn what other people outside your world are doing. Go to thrift stores or learn to sew your own clothes. Learn new hobbies, make new friends. And don't be ashamed to be different from those around you. It may cause pain--you may be rejected, you may make faux-pas, you may become horribly embarrassed. But if you can be yourself, imperfect and lovely, you will find that freedom grows around you. You'll be too big to be boxed in by a movement or a fad. You can't be labeled, you can't be ignored.

For those of us who left the teen years behind years ago, I say the same. We can only be ourselves--let's be the best we can be.

Cabin Fever

I'm not much of a homebody, so the past month indoors as a new mother has been rather a challenge to my emotional stability! I love our two-bedroom townhouse; it's filled with momentos of good times and gifts from loved ones, its walls are painted restful and eye-delighting colors by my talented and hardworking mother, and already we have found the home in our hearts reflected in it. I love my charming daughter, with whom I spend my days. I love my writing, Netflix, cooking (and eating), endless episodes of Deep Space Nine, lots of coffee, books, occasional cleaning, and long phone calls. But I can tell you with certainty that it's not enough for my eyes to rest upon.

I need the sky--preferably crisp and blue, with white clouds drifting across like puffy cotton balls. I need the sun to kiss my face and blind me in its radiance. I need to breathe air untainted by a furnace, full of sounds and scents which have nothing whatsoever to do with me. I need to see people in their cars like beetles on the highway, to exchange pleasantries with a friendly barista, to pace the aisles of the grocery store. I need to come home tired and ready to retreat into familiar things.

I'm realizing how much I need bigness around me. I need there to be more than myself and my surroundings. Perhaps this necessity is an integral part of human nature--why, after all, we have as an entire society never been content to imagine that life ended with our bodily death. Nor have we accepted the lack of a Beyond. We need to be small in the vastness of the universe. We need to be less than something--for that means we always have something greater to which to aspire.

My cabin fever is not just due to my extroverted nature, but also to the human necessity to acknowledge myself as part of a greater whole.

Do you get cabin fever? How do you seek to remedy it?

Yearning for Home

“If I discover within myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” -C.S. Lewis


In that shadowy moment when my heart cries for something inexpressible, for experience I cannot name, I remember that I must be yearning for home. In the sweet breath between sleeping and waking, when the edges of my consciousness fog into a greater being, I remember that I must be yearning for home. In the strange ecstasy and passion of life, when I partake of emotion far beyond me, I remember that I must be yearning for home.

Parental Ferocity

bathtime

I've always perceived myself as a rather laid-back person. Traffic doesn't bother me much, I like experimenting with food, and I'm not a neatnik. While I like being on time, I'm not obsessed with deadlines, and I try to let the people around me be themselves without pressure.

Laying aside the fact that this self-perception may just be erroneous, no one could be more surprised than I at the tide of parental ferocity which has arisen in me since my daughter was born!

Her first bath was administered by a nurse who had been working in pediatrics since the 70's and had a suitably casual approach. As my daughter squirmed and moaned under the warmer, this woman scrubbed mercilessly at the buildup of birth, informed us that babies don't like their backs touched and proceeded to rub our baby's, and actually combed my baby's hair into a kewpie curl! Though dazed from birth and unable to stand long enough to get dressed, I considered leaping from my bed and throttling the woman. (I must add that my opinion of her modulated to complete gratefulness as she proved herself remarkably thoughtful to all of us over the course of the day... some angels come in abrasive packages.)

We've endeavored to keep our little girl sequestered from the germs of the world for the past two weeks in what now seems a doomed attempt to let her immune system begin its work without interference. Only the grandparents have had the privilege of holding her small bulk, kissing her perfect face, and laughing over the impossible facial expressions with which she gifts the world.

Finally allowing some treasured family to come to visit yesterday, we ascertained that everyone was health, had been healthy, and showed no signs of declining health. The visit was wonderful.

And last night they all came down with the flu.

Turns out they had spent some time over the weekend with some friends who had been battling the stomach bug, and these friends neglected to mention that fact.

May I say, I'm livid? We won't know for a few days if our two-week-old infant will succumb to the germs, so while we live in suspense let me attempt to govern my heart into some semblance of forgiveness. The tide of bitterness rising within me as I realize that my child's health has been compromised threatens to overcome me. I want to make a furious phone call, I want to publish the ignominy from the rooftops.

Why does this so enrage me? I think it's simple: my daughter's physical and emotional well-being are my husband's and my responsibility right now. We are the gatekeepers. And our gates have been breached.

I ruefully acknowledge that I cannot protect little E. from everything in the world. I can't guarantee that she'll never be sick, that she'll never have her heart disregarded, that she'll never make a mistake. I am fallible. As a passionate parent I have limitations. I am not omniscient nor am I all-powerful.

But I will do my best to protect her, and when my protection fails I will comfort her. And I will not hesitate to speak in her defense until she can speak for herself. The parental ferocity which has so suddenly arisen within me has a purpose!

What about you? If you're a parent, do you find yourself feeling the same way? If not, what do you think about parental ferocity?

Ch-ch-ch-change

I've always considered myself a change-lover, but I'm not sure where I got that misconception. The truth is, I love to think about change, to roll new ideas over in my mind, to look into the ramifications of this move or that opportunity, but when a door opens and I must go through it in my life, I suddenly think of all the things I'll miss from my old place, and find the uncertainty of the new overwhelming. Emotionally, I struggle until I find a new equilibrium.

The first box packed!

This I have had the chance to observe in myself lately, because my husband and I are moving. It's a wonderful move--lateral in space but most definitely an improvement on financial fronts--that will give us the freedom to consider more opportunities in the future. We will spend our first night in the new place on Christmas Eve.

Now I am eight months pregnant, so I am doing more directing than actual moving, and dear friends and family are volunteering their hours and muscles. We are about halfway moved, at that awkward stage where it seems that anytime we need anything it's at the other house.

The strange thing I'm realizing is that my fear of change does not make change bad! In fact, this fear should be faced and laid to rest as I root into the unchanging soil of love within and around me. If all were to change in a terrible way, I would still be loved and would still love. So let me hold to what is sure while all around me swirls, while my physical environment shifts, and while my accustomed routines are disrupted. Because I have all I need, here within me and beside me.

All I need is love. The rest is dispensible.

Learning to Breathe

Caspar David Friedrich,
Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog (1818)

Exhaustion comes in a grey fog, cancelling impetus and outlawing momentum. The list of things to do grows longer in my mind, my emotions boil and seethe, and I find myself in tears over random occurences.

What to do?

I am learning to breathe. In, out. In, out. Long, centered breaths bringing life-giving air and calm into myself. What really matters to me?

To love and be loved. All else is nothing to me.

So I consciously lay aside my to-do list, focus on the dancing eyes of my lover, rest instead of filling my mind with the constant chatter of the world, and find a modicum of peace.

I am learning to breathe.